


Alternatives to Dessert

by suqua (wuhnona)



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Comfort Food, Cooking, Edited Months Later Because Reasons, First Kiss, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Great Depression, M/M, Puns & Word Play, Soviet Union, Surprise Kissing, There's A Tag For That
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-05 20:22:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20279266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wuhnona/pseuds/suqua
Summary: "Food in kitchen,” is all Illya says as Napoleon was on his way in and Illya on his way out.





	Alternatives to Dessert

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaijusizefeels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaijusizefeels/gifts).

> Thank you kaijusizefeels for the prompt!! I also could not resist drawing it once I pictured certain part...
> 
> (edited 2/8/20 because I can't let sleeping dogs lie.)

"Food in kitchen,” is all Illya says as Napoleon was on his way in and Illya on his way out.

Illya was quick, Napoleon turned but only saw his tall silhouette round the corner with the whiplash of a dark scarf. Napoleon shut the door and pulled off his coat, shaking his head and lifting his eyebrows at the thought of going back outside. A heavy snow had started out of no where while Napoleon had been discreetly observing their target. The scattered snow on his shoulders melting, Napoleon brushes the rest out of his hair. 

As for what Illya had said... dinner had certainly not been on Napoleon’s mind on his way back. He had been moving the pieces around the board, wondering what they would do next. He and his partner were going to have to wait it out in the hidden little duplex that served as their current safehouse. Napoleon had thought attempting the stakeout pointless, but apparently Illya did not think the same.

Leaving his shoes and coat at the door to drip snowmelt, Napoleon continues in his socks to the bedroom. The cuff of his trousers were wet from clinging snow, slowly soaking into his socks. He shivers. Considering the shower in the derelict house only seemed to have hot water briefly in the early mornings, Napoleon pulls on a pair of comfortable pajamas and a robe for a little additional warmth in the tiny, drafty house.

The weather had gotten bad rapidly, apparently enough for _Illya_ to put on a scarf. Through the window, Napoleon can see the snowflakes have gotten much bigger and thickened even more. His mouth twists in dismay, knowing Illya had just willingly gone out into _that_. At least Illya had left a fire going, Napoleon deliberately circling the room to stand in front of the small fireplace to absorb some of the warmth.

Sure, Illya out in the snow is like a fish to water, but Napoleon wonders if he was really trying to monitor their target through the heavy snow.

He supposes Illya would make a _handsome_ snowman... but Napoleon wasn't looking forward to digging him out, or nursing him back to health if the man were capable of catching a cold. 

After the fire has warmed his chilled body, Napoleon finally notices the smell in the air- not overpowering, but the light scent of recently hot food. His stomach growls, remembering the '_food in kitchen_'. Napoleon wonders what Illya had chosen from the local deli or restaurant, since the refrigerator and cupboards had been bare when they had arrived.

Entering the kitchen, Napoleon sees things have changed since only hours before- dishes were in the drying rack. A few packages of food and supplies neatly lined one counter. A pot sat on the stovetop, burner turned on low beneath it, and the oven itself was warm to the touch, as though it had been used recently. Curious, Napoleon picks up the lid of the pot and inside was... hot, cabbage _soup_.

Home-cooked food.

“Oh!” Napoleon said aloud, a little surprised.

Napoleon had been under the impression that his partner didn’t cook. Illya certainly hadn't cooked for Napoleon once, in the months they've known and worked with each other. Normally, Napoleon cooked-- he hadn't really asked Illya, early on he'd just set a plate down in front of the Russian. Illya ate every bit as well as seconds.

But that's almost exactly about what Illya had done, too. _Food in kitchen. _

Napoleon's lip quirks. 

Glancing down at the oven, he opens the door and finds a plate of food. Two small meat patties and a generous scoop of mashed potatoes, a thick slice of dark, sweet rye bread wrapped in foil. He takes out the plate, gets out a bowl and tips some of the soup into it.

Another hunch, he checks the refrigerator. A covered dish waits there and he takes it out curiously. Opening it next to the plate, he sees it’s a portion of salad. Reddish purple cubes- root vegetables, plentiful in the market at the moment- mixed in a light oil. Popping one into his mouth, the soft vegetable breaks between his tongue and palate. 

Before taking the plate to the table, Napoleon studies the food Illya has made for him. 

Meat, potatoes, salad, bread, and soup. A balanced meal, simple healthy ingredients, economical, quickly prepared, and leaving little waste.

Napoleon’s lip quirks into a full smile- it’s very 'The Russian Way', almost Illya in food form.

Taking a seat at the small dining table, Napoleon's stomach growls as he remembers the last meal he'd had- a pitiful little sandwich he'd gotten while following the target. 

The taste of the soup reminds him of something- one of his aunts had grown a number of vegetables during his childhood, his childhood hadn't been spent hungry. Thanks to that aunt, his family was kept in fresh vegetables despite the economic turmoil the adults were experiencing.

In both lean times and not, his mother had made similar soup. Cabbage is good for you, she'd say. A child who didn't like vegetables didn't care how good it was, it still tasted like vegetables. But, he had eaten every vegetable placed in front of him. 

Because during those lean times, Napoleon had eaten things varying from a smear of bacon grease on toast to the truly awful creamed chipped beef. Not all of it was necessarily bad, it was economical and wound up teaching him to appreciate those simpler foods of sustenance. 

It had helped in the army, when he became used to repeats of canned meat, sausages... things he also knew Illya had eaten too. Potatoes in any form were still a comfort food to him. Napoleon could eat a full French cuisine multi-course menu at one meal and the next eat spam and pasta in tomato sauce without batting an eye, and enjoy both.

Illya’s food reminds him of those same meals his mother would make. They would be fresh, filling... and made with love. Even though they'd grown up in very different places, it gives Napoleon a warm, funny feeling when he thinks of Illya’s food as tasting like home.

At the same time, it's not funny at all- it's just right. 

Napoleon is lost in thought about it when he hears Illya's quick gait, the swift unlock of the door, which opens and shuts abruptly.

Before Napoleon can turn around, Illya appears around the corner with snow still in his hair and feet bare. From the table, Napoleon can see his boots at the door caked in rapidly melting snow. “Welcome back?” Napoleon offers, a sympathetic curve to his mouth. 

Illya grunts, leaning over and dropping a box onto the counter. “Got more supplies, may be snowed in for day or two,” he says, glancing at Napoleon for a moment before double taking. His brows furrow. “You are eating it.”

Napoleon looks down at the food, then back at Illya. His fork is midair. “Was I not supposed to? I assumed ‘_food in kitchen_’ meant food for me.”

Illya’s eyebrows lifts, he shook his head slightly. “No, food is yours. Just did not think it would... suit you.”

That wasn’t that surprising to Napoleon. It wouldn't be the first time someone assumed he required gourmet cuisine at all meals. He just usually chose that option when given the chance. He wonders if he should tell Illya he'd choose the Russian's homemade plate over a five-star restaurant. 

“All good food suits me,” Napoleon says, smile impish as he picks up his knife and elegantly cuts a bit of meat. When he puts it into his mouth, the tender bite falls apart. 

The resulting half-smile from Illya surprises him. Even further to his surprise, Illya makes himself a cup of tea and sits down with him as soon as the perishables are in the refrigerator. “You have not eaten much Russian food,” Illya says, not as a question.

The bread that Napoleon had toasted a little more crunched when he bit into it, slightly sweet. He wonders if Illya baked it himself, and hopes that there's more because it's very good. “You’re right there,” he said after he swallows, dipping the next bite into the broth of the soup. “A little, but only secondhand from an adventurous restaurant. Never in Russia and nothing homemade.”

Illya curses softly. At Napoleon’s questioning look, he rolls his eyes slightly. “Should have made _pelmeni_,” he said, “If you’ve not had good, real Russian food before. Should probably have started there.”

Napoleon remembers those, small meat dumplings. He smiles. “I take it yours are the best?”

“Family recipe, so yes... but those,” Illya nods at the dishes in front of Napoleon, “learned from working in _stolovaya_.”

While Illya details a little of working briefly in the stolovaya- a large public dining hall one could purchase a filling, inexpensive meal- Napoleon continues to eat. His description reminds Napoleon of the canteen in the army, and some of the simple, fresh meals Illya describes sound similar too. He laughs out loud when Illya gripes about American spam, Illya even chuckling himself

Apparently a young Illya was given extra food from the stolovaya and cooked for himself often. It helped him get through his university days, ensured his body was strong- the true goal of the nourishing Soviet food. 

Plate and bowl empty, Napoleon leans back in his chair- stomach full. He’s forgotten the cold floor and drafty room, the snowfall thickening outside. Illya had gotten up to make another cup of tea, the kettle starting to bubble loudly. 

The kettle whistles and Illya comes back to the table, setting down a second cup in front of Napoleon. He can see the spoon in the cup has a dark blob of jam slowly melting into the hot water, meaning Illya had made him a cup of tea to finish his Russian meal in the Russian way. Taking the cup and moving the spoon to stir it into the tea, Napoleon takes a sip. The raspberry-sweetened black tea is hot and soothing.

Breathing in and letting it out in a sigh, Napoleon smiles. “You know... this might be the best meal I’ve had in decades, Peril,” he says, feeling like a confession but happy and relaxed enough not to care.

Illya looks pleased but he affects a serious expression. "Well, it's too bad. You get real Russian lunch for dinner, but no _kissel _for dessert.”

The word is unfamiliar to Napoleon but he sounds it out. He likes the word, he decides- and apparently it's a dessert. “Kissel,” he says, as though rolling the word around on his tongue. He hums, saying it again. “Kiss-_el_... Kiss...”

It's giving him ideas. Bad ideas. And Napoleon is relaxed enough not to hold back. 

Illya gives him an odd stare, Napoleon slowly rises in his seat. Illya follows his movement, eyebrows furrow as Napoleon leans over the table and touches the side of Illya's face but he doesn’t move away. 

Napoleon leans in slowly, plenty of room for protest. In the moment before contact, he sees Illya's eyes flicker down to Napoleon's mouth just before he tilts Illya's head to press his lips gently to Illya’s cheek.

He can hear the moment Illya stops breathing, a blush blooming warm under his mouth. Illya's hand is suddenly at Napoleon's elbow, not pushing but holding on over the silky robe. Napoleon smiles and leans back slightly- Illya's eyes had closed- and his fingers encourage Illya to move his head and he obediently allows it.

Napoleon presses another to the opposite cheek. Illya's face is now red from one ear across to the other. Napoleon's fingers tease under Illya's chin until he tips his head up, eyes still closed. His clenched hand had relaxed but now holds tight again, like he's ensuring Napoleon stays right there. 

The kiss Napoleon presses to Illya's lips is soft and tastes of raspberry. He lifts his head up, stroking once with his thumb over Illya's jaw before he sits back down, silk robe sliding through Illya's fingers. He's enjoying another sip of his tea as a red-cheeked Illya stares at him with his mouth parted. Napoleon is pleased to see that there's hunger in his eyes amidst the confusion in his expression. 

“Well, I think _that's_ a close enough alternative..." Napoleon says, smiling across the table as though not noticing the blatant . "Thank you for the meal, Peril. And for dessert." He smirks at Illya's narrowed eyes. "Are you cooking breakfast?”

After a moment, Illya nods. “Blini,” he says, a little hoarse.

Napoleon makes an appreciative little sound, Illya visibly swallows at the sound. While Napoleon has eaten blini before, but he’d bet every piece of stolen art he had locked away that Illya’s were much better. “And do you think we’ll have kissel for lunch... tomorrow?” He asks, eyebrows lifting innocently.

Illya’s bright blue eyes were wide but then he blinks and they fill with_ heat_. Even so, and despite the warmth from the meal, Napoleon shivers.

“I think you'll need alternative again, Cowboy ...but is pronounced kiss_el_, not like 'kiss Illya'." Illya smirks and lifts his cup. "You need to work on your Russian." 

Napoleon makes the same appreciative noise at that and Illya actually chokes on his tea.

Maybe it wasn't such a bad time to be snowed in, after all. 

[end]

**Author's Note:**

> Illya's Soviet Cafeteria-Style Menu: chicken kotleti, vinegrete, shchi, mashed potato, and slice of black bread. Black tea with raspberry jam for dessert/general after-dinner tea. 
> 
> [Soviet Era Cafeterias/Canteens/Dining Halls](https://www.rbth.com/russian-kitchen/329657-public-catering-soviet-canteens)  
Kissel- a fruit juice thickened with starch, often made with berries. ([Someone who hates Kissel describes it](https://www.rbth.com/arts/2015/06/05/kissel_the_juice_that_pretends_to_be_a_meal_46687.html))  
[Russian Cabbage-y Foods!](https://www.rbth.com/russian-kitchen/329684-10-russian-dishes-cabbage)  
It was hot out today, so I wanted to write a wintertime thing. =D
> 
> HMU on tumblr @wuhnona if you have napollya ideas 4 me, I need to exercise my lil brain with New Things!!


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